Bwana
by Clorinda
Summary: A white man and his coloured companion. Mistakes and snobbery. Assumptions and selfassured superiority. Prejudices that spare no one, regardless of circumstances. The year is 1927. AU.


**Bwana**

**By **Clorinda

**Rated**: PG

**Category**:

**Summary**: A white man and his coloured companion. Mistakes and snobbery. Assumptions and self-assured superiority. Prejudices that spare no one, regardless of circumstances. The year is 1927. AU.

**Author's Note**: This is by far the most radical AU fic I have ever written in my life. Seriously. Never have I gone _this_ far. At one point in my life, (or literary career, as my ego would like to call it) **psquare** had reckoned I wrote a **Hungry Heart-Get Backers **crossover (:grins: Yeah, I still remember what you said about "**Sweet Reunion**") but even that was tame in comparison to _this_.

I'm perfectly sure that I could have turned this into purely original fiction and posted it at FictionPress, but I dunno, something said it would be all the more real if I used familiar characters. At least to _me_, it would be more real. I'm not that horrible at characterisation and character development in my fiction, but somehow, I don't think I can trust myself to project something like racism without help.

I would like you to remember the timeline is the 1900s, the kind of century when people would hang out signs outside the more posh buildings saying "No drunks, no blacks, no Irish." I know racist pigs are rampant these days, so take into consideration that hate, and multiply it by five. Then, read this story (or all right, as much as I've been able to write out so far) with that in mind.

**Warning**: Despite that trusty piece of math I just advised, I am known and notorious for hyping up a cause. Despite everything, I am still fleshing out as even an amateur writer, so that hate rampant in the background **may not** come out as prominently or as convincingly as I would like it to. I apologise in advance for that.

Also, given my past record, I would like to say in advance this is not a slashy story. SakaixRodrigo moments may make a brief cameo, but it's unlikely. They're just too hard to write, but most other alternate pairings aren't, so beware. And yes, Kyosuke makes his appearance. And so does Kaori, which betrays a bit.

* * *

**Chapter One**

_Five miles outside Pietermaritzburg_, _Natal_.

1927

Silence swirled in the wood-panelled office; the gurgling, liquid sound of scotch being poured out, loud.

Not yet dusk, and the walls were splashed with waning sunlight, a comfortable blend of orange and gold that painted the expensive, lacquered furniture that flaunted wealth. Despite the cool faces and careless exterior, their owner had worked indeed very hard to gather luxury around him— he would never let it perish.

There were two of them in the room, friends who transcended time and breakage and heart. One had skin the colour of chocolate, the other had hair that glinted silver. Appearances did not matter.

Far in the distance, silhouetted against the faraway horizon, an elephant trumpeted, the long, mourning cry splitting the air into two. Rodrigo flinched.

He was not used to life out in the wilderness; the cities were his home, be it the slums, or the universities. He was still on guarded edge around Sakai and his new official quarters in this vat of African jungle.

"_Gives it just the realistic_, _romantic angle_, _doesn_'_t it_?" Rodrigo snorted again. He respected Sakai, and loved him like a brother, but unfortunately, that never meant he had play along with his madness.

"Drink up," said Sakai cheerfully, rich, government boy at twenty-over, nudging the tumbler of chilled liquor across the desk he was standing behind. Rodrigo, academy's scholarship prodigy at twenty-over, picked it up, and stared dully into its contents.

"Come on, you know I don't drink."

"It won't poison you."

"That's not the point."

"Then, what? It's not drugged either. I'm not using reverse psychology."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much more confident—"

The door opened. He froze.

A tall, corpulent, military gentleman entered. Sakai looked up, the palm of his hand resting against the desk in unconscious arrogance, as he greeted, "Major Courtney. You've come,"

"Nice to see I haven't outweighed my welcome, Mr. Koji," The major didn't glance at Rodrigo, slipping out of his coat and hanging it on a nearby hook. "I hope I'm not interrupting you in the midst of business?"

"Not at all. I haven't a single safari until next week; as you can see, I'm relaxing. Would you care for a drink?"

Courtney stepped forward, and despite his weight, his shoulders were rigid and straight like a man of his rank. "Don't mind." He looked around and spotting Rodrigo for the first time, he said dismissively, "You, there: fetch me a fresh glass, will you?"

Rodrigo didn't move. Sakai didn't either; the amber flecks had hardened like diamond in the other man's eyes. He hardly doubted Rodrigo would appreciate it if he even moved.

"Well, don't just stand there," snapped Courtney. Rodrigo levelled his gaze at the major, eyes meeting one another and the companionable silence that had existed between two ancient, old, old friends turned frigid and to the colour of tar.

Shoes sounded hard and briskly on the floorboards; a door slammed in polite anger. Sakai stood there still, with one hand on the desk and one hand holding the glass of scotch.

His breath expelled itself in a tired sigh. "Why don't you take his glass, Major Courtney?" he said softly. "He said he doesn't drink anyway."

The major was not one to turn down a free drink, and he accepted the departed Rodrigo's forsaken one, wisely choosing not to wonder aloud his doubts of why the butler would be allowed to share his employer's scotch.

* * *

Sakai didn't see Rodrigo for whole week after that disastrous pseudo-sundown rendezvous. He hated himself now for not having said anything then; protested in his mind to an invisible Courtney that Rodrigo most certainly was not one of the hired help.

_For God_'_s sake_, he thought irritably, _the fellow is Brazilian_. It should have been obvious; even a man like Courtney, major and veteran of battles in unknown and known, would be expected to see the stark difference between an African man and a foreigner who hailed from South America.

But, he thought miserably, _that_'_s_ _only because I_'_ve known Rodrigo half my life_.

Sakai taught himself over that span of time to once more shift focus to business in his house and office, the two-storey building with attic and cellar where he lived with his secretary and girl, Sara Nikilla, outside Pietermaritzburg.

He was a good-looking man, tall, well-built shoulders and platinum-silver hair that attracted to a face, pale with glittering blue eyes. He was young, ambitious and well-liked, and in the heart of a jungle, a half-European, half-Asian sat in empowered Africa, cracking the whip— though not so loud.

When, on one Wednesday eve, Sara told him a call was waiting, inexplicably, it seized him that it was Rodrigo.

It wasn't the first time Rodrigo had been pitted against unpleasantness because of the colour of skin, and Sakai, who'd violently defended him the first few times, before being unwillingly pulled out of the affair entirely by Rodrigo himself, had found himself with a few hard bruises from the offending party. Rodrigo had visited Sakai afterwards each time, neither referring back to any of those incidents, simply talking, veering away from dangerous topics in respect for one's complexion and the other's ice pack.

Sakai knew now that Rodrigo was calling, like he had always done. He felt inordinately glad now that the phone lines were still active. He crossed the floor, and picked up the extension in his study. Distantly, through the receiver, he heard the click, as Sara set down the phone downstairs.

"Hello?" said Sakai softly, knowing what he would hear, relishing the anticipation anyway.

"Hello; Mr. Koji? I'm so glad to have caught you,"

It wasn't Rodrigo.

It was a fresh, breathless female voice, and as she crossed the perfunctory greetings, he recalled her as the client who had wanted the safari at the end of the week.

"I called to confirm the dates," she went on. "I hope I haven't found you at a bad time, but the telephone lines have been dead for the past couple of days in Pretoria."

"It's all right, Miss Kaori," he said, pressing the enthusiastic safari-guide on his voice. "I'm not too busy for a conversation with a beautiful woman. Did you want the dates?"

"I wanted a pretence to call, Mr. Koji."

Hand cupped over the receiver halfway through an attempt to call Sara to find his relevant records, Sakai had to smile. He drew out a chair, and sat down.

"We are going hunting this weekend, Miss Kaori. Surely we should be discussing the best kind of clothes to be wearing in the jungle."

She laughed. He could picture her easily— head thrown back from elegantly held shoulders, blue eyes gleaming with mirth. "I'd rather talk guns, Mr. Koji. I'm not married, and I don't own an arsenal otherwise ... Perhaps you could lend me?"

The smile inched wider. "That depends," he said with a low chuckle. "That depends on if you can shoot."

Sara knocked on the door twice, before popping her head in. Her hair was half-done on one side of her head to prove that she had been interrupted somewhere, and her eyes were cloudy.

"I know you don't like being disturbed, Sakai, but ... Rodrigo's here with a word to say."

He was on his feet and down the stairs, an indignant Kaori yelling his name on the hanging line four times, before hanging up with an upward roll of her eyes, and a knowing, impatient smirk.


End file.
